interior. The birds had left their shelter, and only the bats remained, hanging heads downward in the darkened places.
"We cannot explore this cavern now, comrades," he said calmly, "therefore we must make an effort to get to the top of the cliffs."
"The rope which I brought last night is still here, doctor," answered Anatole humbly, a feeling of guilt still on him for his fatal mistake, which had involved them all in this catastrophe. It would be some time before he recovered his former assurance. "Let me attempt the ascent, and take the rope with me; this will help the others up."
"It is your duty, comrade," replied the doctor coldly. He did not reproach Anatole with his folly. If ever they reached civilisation again—that is, Anarchical civilisation—this bungler would be tried and condemned to the traitor's death for his mistake, and he knew it as well as the others did. His life for the present only was reprieved while he could be made useful.
Poor Anatole turned his head away, and smiled bitterly as he drew up the rope, coiling it at his feet sailor-fashion, while the others looked on without speaking. If they were doomed to perish together on this lonely island, it would be the same to him as if they were rescued, yet he resolved to do his duty and help them in all that he could, without expecting or asking for sympathy or pity. When a man begins to mark this course out for himself, be he Anarchist or Christian, he has taken the first lesson in God's philosophy—a hard lesson, yet holding in its own action its reward, not riches that rust, nor treasure that satiates, but condonation for evil, and the "peace which passeth understanding."
